


Rose Petals and Drag

by DestinedForJohnlock



Series: DFJ fills prompts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Cock Rings, Fluff, M/M, Prompt Fill, Rimming, Smut, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Gift Exchange, go figure, i mentioned a crop and never used it, jackiesjunkie, john's pleasantly surprised, johnlockchallenges, long sweaters and thigh high boots, sherlock goes all out, sherlock in drag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:56:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1189377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestinedForJohnlock/pseuds/DestinedForJohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s under the impression he and Sherlock won’t be celebrating Valentine’s Day this year. Sherlock surprises him. Prompt filled for <a href="http://jackiesjunkie.tumblr.com">jackiesjunkie</a> as part of <a href="http://johnlockchallenges.tumblr.com">johnlockchallenges's</a> Valentine's Day Gift Exchange! The prompt was "long sweaters and thigh high boots."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rose Petals and Drag

**Author's Note:**

> I had a difficult time trying not to get hung up on every little detail, and I feel like I tried too hard. I'm about 100000% sure I'll come back and edit this to fix minor things. But, here it is. So sorry I'm a day late!
> 
> Edit: 6 months later, I fixed the small mistakes and inconsistencies.

 

_I’m assuming you’re not in favour of candles, wine, and a nice dinner out, then._

_Safe assumption. SH_

_I get that you’re not one for convention, but what’s your deal with Valentine’s Day?_

_If you must ask, then clearly I’ve misjudged your intellect. SH_

_Come off it, it’s a day to show appreciation to those you love._

_Precisely why I don’t care for it. SH_

_Because of the holiday?_

_Because that should be every day, just without the frills. SH_

_Although if you really want to go all out, you could bring home a human heart for an experiment I’ve been eager to perform. SH_

_Don’t think I can pick that up at a shop._

_You’re looking at the wrong kind of shop. SH_

_I really don’t wanna know._

And that’s it, that’s the extent of their plans for a ‘romantic’ weekend. To be honest, John didn’t expect anything more. But it was worth a try. Sherlock has been so wrapped up in a case surrounding the holiday as it is, littering their flat with dozens of heart shaped boxes of chocolates to run various tests on whatever specific flavours he’d determined from a string of poisonings related to the murders. John has been busy at the clinic diagnosing one cold and flu after the next. They’ve spent the past few weeks catching each other at the flat on the off chance they both have time to be home, always in the late evening and early morning, or on a couple occasions John accompanies Sherlock to a crime scene if for no other reason than to be an accessory or company for Greg.

John understands the work comes first, so he deals with it in his own way, usually in the shower while Sherlock’s busy not paying him any mind, and waits. Because it’s always worth the wait.

But _fuck_ , this is supposed to be an excuse for all of that.

John is not surprised. He’s _not_. It’s just like Sherlock to disregard a commercial holiday.

But he’s still a bit disappointed.

So he deals with it with longer showers in the days leading up to that weekend. It doesn’t go unnoticed. John can practically feel Sherlock’s sharp eyes watching his every move in the kitchen between jotting notes and the same variations of “manufactured candy is absolutely vile” the detective mutters between taste tests and injections of fuck knows what into the perfectly shaped and sickeningly sweet chocolates scattered on their kitchen table. And that’s just Monday morning.

Tuesday, John’s called in earlier than usual and leaves the flat before Sherlock has a chance to wake up. He leaves a note on their kitchen table requesting a cloth over the wood to protect it from more stains. It goes ignored. John wanks out of frustration. Twice.

Wednesday evening, John comes home to roses in just about any available container in their kitchen. Some are trimmed and arranged delicately. Others look rough and don their sharp thorns. John stands in the doorway and looks around for a moment, brows furrowed and hand on hip when Sherlock walks in explaining their involvement in the case to Lestrade over his phone (since when did he make calls?) John gets off that night something slow and lazy, relishing in the relief of the hot water over his aching muscles. The day was long, and Sherlock sits up all night rattling in the kitchen while John oversleeps and nearly misses the beginning of his shift the next morning.

Thursday is his last ditch effort to have some sort of nod toward the holiday.

_Take out?_

_Triple homicide. SH_

John and Sherlock don’t do gifts, not really. And that’s certainly not one John can fill. So, defeated, he gives up any notion that they’ll spend the weekend holed up in their flat as they had the previous year and returns home. The flat is empty. Sherlock’s experiments still sit on the floor and available surfaces. Roses are starting to die in their sink.

John showers, shoots a text to Sherlock, and sleeps.

He wakes and is relieved to see Sherlock passed out on the sofa. Disturbing him in the past has always ended unfavourably for John, so he gathers his things and runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair once – the first touch in a few days – before leaving for work. The clinic is near empty when he arrives, and his schedule reads just a couple of early morning patients and an afternoon checkup. All of it is routine, the patients talk about their plans and comment on the decorations around the office. John is envious but he figures as long as he returns to find Sherlock well and alive at the end of the day, he can’t complain.

He is roughly ten minutes from home when he receives the first text.

_I am well aware you’re disappointed things haven’t gone as you’d hoped. SH_

Oh, great, Sherlock’s aware. Surprise.

_I can’t ask you to put a case on hold for my sake. Wouldn’t be fair._

_As ever, I appreciate your consideration.SH_

That’s rare.

_Yep. Need something? Passing store now._

_That heart I mentioned previously. SH_

_Not happening._

_Then your presence will do. SH_

John wants to ask what Sherlock’s got up his sleeve, but he’s not sure he wants to find out any sooner than he has to. For a moment, he’s worried what he’s going to walk into.

_Everything alright?_

_Perfectly. SH_

John worries more. He picks up pace and rounds the corner onto their street.

_Don’t tell me you’ve set something on fire._

_Or there’s someone in the flat._

_Not at all. SH_

John won’t sigh relief until he’s seen for himself. His keys catch in his pocket and he mutters curses under his breath. The door unlocks with a click as his phone goes off. He steps in and glances in the foyer for any signs of distress before he checks his phone again.

_Although you’ll find this is just as alarming. SH_

John wastes no time in climbing the stairs two at a time and hurrying through the door. Before he can get Sherlock’s name out, the absence of red and wrappers stills him. The chocolates are gone, as are their boxes. Containers previously holding roses are empty and redistributed to their respective spots around the flat. Files are missing from the tabletop and Sherlock’s usual map above the couch is disassembled and scattered on their coffee table.

The case is over.

Realization takes John and he calls out for Sherlock, turning to walk toward their room.

Rose petals are lined on the floor, leading from Sherlock’s stool at the table and trailing into the hall.

Alarming isn’t the word John would use. Probably surreal. Or ridiculous. But he finds himself grinning anyway and between realization and their bedroom door, he’s pictured a half dozen cheesy scenarios Sherlock could have possibly concocted. It doesn’t matter, they are getting their weekend and that’s all he cares about.

He’s careful not to step on them, as if they need to be preserved or disturbing them would ruin whatever illusion he’s about to walk into. Their bedroom door is shut. He briefly considers knocking once before opening but Sherlock must know he’s standing on the other side. When Sherlock does something, he goes all out. John is not about to walk into their bedroom, not really. He’s about to walk into unfamiliar territory.

His hand lingers on the doorknob for a moment before turning it and stepping into the room, the gentle breeze sending petals fluttering across the floor. Burning incense is the first to register, lingering and just this side of enjoyable. Flickering candlelight sits atop dressers and windowsill. Rose petals are scattered in bunches around the decorations. The entire room is dimly lit from one of their bedside tables. John toes off his shoes and leaves them by the door before taking a few cautious steps in. His head is light, body buzzing in the faint lavender scent and anticipation.

There are two clicks behind him and then approaching steps are muffled. Before John can turn he finds himself in someone’s grip, one arm around his waist and the other around his shoulder. His first instinct is to defend himself, but then Sherlock’s voice is in his ear, resonating from the detective’s chest and into John’s back. “Welcome home, _John_.” John’s name is practically a purr. It’s one of the sexiest sounds he’s heard in far too long.

He feels towered over. The rumble of Sherlock’s voice reverberates against his shoulders and the nape of his neck, higher than it ought to. He reaches to touch Sherlock’s arms and feels thick, soft material instead of the usual thin and crisp button-up. When he looks, he sees the knitted pattern of his tan jumper contrasting the pale, skinny wrist it’s swallowing.

“Is this—are you in my jumper?”

Sherlock hums confirmation in his ear. John shivers.

“Thought you hated them.”

“You thought wrong.”

“But you said—“

“I lied.”

John scoffs and presses back against Sherlock. He feels a much more obvious bulge against his lower back. Before he can comment, he’s made aware of the riding crop in Sherlock’s hand as the small pad of leather drags over his jaw and the corner of his mouth. “It’s much softer on the inside.”

The crop drops to tease John’s collarbone through his shirt. “No trousers, either, then?”

“Nnnope.” Sherlock lips pop the _p_ against the skin of John’s neck but don’t touch. His breath is hot and raises goosebumps over John’s arms. John’s hands tighten around Sherlock’s wrist.

He remembers he feels much shorter, not like he needs any of that anyway, genetics have already been unfavourable there. “Hold on, why the hell do you seem so fucking tall?”

Sherlock smirks and unwinds his arms from John, stepping back, much to John’s dismay, just enough to let him turn. Where John expects to see Sherlock’s face, he sees the long expanse of neck and part of his shoulder exposed where John’s jumper is hanging off of it, too big for his lithe frame. His attention is on bright red lips pulled in the mischievous (“victorious”, Sherlock would argue later) smile. Cheekbones are made more prominent with a very, very light bronzer and his top lids are lined with a thick, sleek black. His hair is styled, fuller, framing his face, and John’s hands itch to run through it and tug and pull and explore. It’s all very minimal, but does wonders for… whatever it is Sherlock’s trying to achieve. John’s not too sure why _this_ all of a sudden, but he can’t find fault in any of it.

“While I appreciate your awe, _this_ ” Sherlock’s lips look dangerously sexy while he speaks, and he gestures around his face once with the riding crop, “won’t explain why I’m ‘so fucking tall.’”

Sherlock’s voice breaks the trance. John nods and swallows, then looks down.

And down.

And _down._

_Are those—leather?_

“They add roughly ten centimeters to my height.”

John’s eyes are wide and he keeps looking from the shine of leather to the contrast of the skin shown between the tops of the boots where they hug his thighs and the bottom of his jumper. Sherlock stretches an arm up to drape over his own head, lets the riding crop swing from one end hooked on his finger, and he juts a hip out. John can make out the trace of lace on the edge of panties just beneath the jumper.

He wants to reach out and touch but his arms won’t cooperate. All he can do is stare. When he looks back up, Sherlock’s head is tilted up and his eyes are downcast, running over the length of John’s body.

John’s not sure if he’s just surprised or if it’s the strangest sense of arousal he’s ever experienced. When he’s finally able to speak, he manages, “This isn’t acceptable.”

Thankfully, Sherlock understands. He laughs and straightens back to normal, both arms fidgeting with the crop and the ends of the jumper’s sleeves. “Part of my numerous disguises, though the jumper is obviously a bit of a deviant. I assumed you’d like the touch. But trust me when I say,” Sherlock closes the distance between the two of them and stands with his hips pressed against John, one arm hanging loosely by his side while the other teases the tip of the crop beneath John’s chin again, “the difference in height shouldn’t be much of a bother. I don’t plan on being upright much longer.”

John’s reserve breaks and he grabs at Sherlock’s hips, thumb digging into the dip of skin beneath them, and walks him back against the bed. Sherlock’s balance is flawless and John watches the long stretch of detective fall back without trouble. The crop is tossed to the head of the bed and forgotten momentarily as John crawls after him, feeling along the slick boots, laced in the back and topped with a subtle bow, and over the edges of red silk panties lined with black lace he stops to admire. He bends down to bite at the skin above the lace, nosing along the thin trail of hair until it disappears beneath. Sherlock’s erection strains against the material, stained a darker red in a damp patch John touches with gentle fingertips. John doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to feel Sherlock at the back of his throat as much as he does now, but he holds back, won’t rush, won’t give Sherlock immediate satisfaction. Sherlock’s breath hitches and the smug look falters. That in itself is an accomplishment. John is already overly pleased with himself.

“And what on _earth_ has gotten into you today, hm?” John’s body is buzzing with anticipation, eager to strip Sherlock bare and tease and mark and take him apart bit by bit until he has a lap full of writhing genius, but after two months of near zero intimate contact, he’s going to make this last. And Sherlock is going to push him. He settles on cupping Sherlock through the thin silk and stroking with the barest of touches. John has taken care of his hard-ons by himself. He’s not sure if Sherlock does. He wants to assume so, but the sudden twitch of his hips forward and then longing look in his eyes say otherwise.

However, the bastard manages to speak clear as day regardless. “Isn’t this what people do on Valentine’s day? Try for romance, go all out?”

“Since when have you cared for romance?”

“You assume I can’t be romantic? I’m hurt, John, really.”

Sarcastic git. “Mm, asking for human hearts _really_ screams ‘romantic.’”

“Getting one for me does.” Sherlock almost sounds petulant. Almost.

But John’s no fool. Nor did he forget, as much as he wanted to. “It’ll be waiting for you at Bart’s on Monday.”

Sherlock looks genuinely surprised for half a second but laughs low and grins. John doesn’t let him think about it too much longer and adds pressure to his strokes. Sherlock gasps and his head falls back, cupids-bow lips parted as he sighs in temporary relief.  John tells himself to remember to get something for Molly as thanks for handling the request and then promptly forgets and pushes himself up further onto the bed.

He’s on his knees, legs spread to keep Sherlock’s open, and stretched over him. One hand holds him up while the other snakes beneath the jumper to run over heated skin. Sherlock’s hips tilt up and he squeezes his thighs against John’s sides while John lays claim on Sherlock’s neck, his shoulder, his sharp collarbone. He bites and sucks bruises into skin, and when Sherlock's back bows John slides his arm beneath and around him, holding him tight. He growls low in his throat when he feels heat from Sherlock’s bare stomach seep through his own shirt and cardigan. The hush of fabric where the jumper meets his clothes suddenly makes him all the more anxious to get out of them.

“I’m going to _ruin_ those pretty red lips of yours,” John promises before sucking on the hollow beneath Sherlock’s ear. And he absolutely plans on it. He expects to see red on his shoulders and jaw when he next looks in their bathroom mirror, Sherlock’s own brand of possession. Smears of ruin and prints around teeth marks. He’s aching in his trousers from the thought.

But it’s nothing compared to the pain from the tight strain he experiences when Sherlock turns his head enough to speak directly into John’s ear, “How would you like to see them stretched around your thick _cock_?”

The word is harsh and filthy coming from Sherlock and John groans into his shoulder before pulling back to kiss the smirk off of his face. He doesn’t care if his lips are stained and smudged red, not when he tastes the want and—chocolate. John tastes chocolate on Sherlock’s tongue. He pulls back, smooth as he can, panting, surprisingly short of breath. Sherlock’s lips are still perfectly red. John’s not even disappointed if it won’t show up on his skin elsewhere later on. “Please tell me… those weren’t from your experiments earlier.”

Sherlock’s brows furrow but he smiles anyway. “No, not at all. I _may_ have gotten into the stash I’d reserved for today.”

John’s relief is probably a bit exaggerated, considering. “Thought you’d gotten tired of them after the last few weeks?”

“I’ve an insatiable sweet tooth.” Sherlock’s pupils dilate and he rocks his hips up into John’s. John’s breath hitches and he presses down for any friction he can get out of it. “And an oral fixation that distracts me. It was either the chocolate or the cigarettes.”

“My cock’s an option, you know.”

“During casework, no. Right now, however…”

John kisses him once more and sits up to pull his cardigan off and toss is across the room. It lands on the floor and disturbs a group of petals. Sherlock sits forward and helps him pull his shirt untucked and work buttons undone from the bottom while John works from the top. John doesn’t bother to take it off when they’re done and Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s waist to nip at his stomach. John works his hands in Sherlock’s hair, gently gripping and tugging when Sherlock’s bite is just a tad too sharp. Sherlock misinterprets it as encouragement (or a challenge, most likely). John will bear the bruises with pride.

Deft fingers are working his belt open and fly down. Sherlock ducks to continue exploring the newly exposed skin above the band of John’s pants. With reluctance, John pulls Sherlock’s head away and sits back. Sherlock is already playing up the debauched look he knows drives John mad, eyes glossy and hair already a mess. His cheeks are darker and he bites his bottom lip between his teeth. The contrast of red on pearly white is too much and John decides that mouth has to be busy elsewhere _now_.

“Fucking—C’mere, up here,” John gestures toward the head of the bed as he stands to strip his trousers and pants, pulling socks off and kicking the pile to the side. He sighs and palms himself, thankful for the freedom. His button-up hangs open but he decides to leave it on. With Sherlock dressed up, he’d feel strange in nothing. “Lie sideways, this way, and let your—yeah, like that.” Sherlock positions himself so he’s lying on his front across the bed, hips and bum raised just so, legs bent up to keep from hanging off the edge and crossed at the ankle.  He’s sitting up on his elbows and lets his head rest on his hands, watching as John sits on the edge of the bed next to him.

John takes time to appreciate him from this angle while he can, running hands over exposed skin and fingertips beneath the black lace of panties and then the tops of the boots. They’ve a corset look on Sherlock’s legs and shape them nicely, give them some volume and accentuate the length. The actual heels are pin-head tiny, he thinks, and John couldn’t imagine they’re easy to walk in. He fingers the laces to touch Sherlock’s skin beneath them.

“What’s the story behind these?” Fuck knows why he asks now rather than later. To be fair, John’s never considered he’d bed anyone with them on, much less Sherlock.

“There will be plenty of time to explain once we’ve exhausted ourselves. In the meantime, I’d really enjoy sucking you off.”

John doesn’t have to be told twice and arranges himself on his usual side of the bed where Sherlock’s left space in front of him. The two are perpendicular to each other, Sherlock’s breath teasing John’s thighs. John settles back against the headboard, one hand absently stroking himself while the other tangles and combs through black curls again, down the nape of Sherlock’s neck and over the taut expanse of his back.

Sherlock continues to watch him.

John’s eyes catch his and he stills. “What?”

“I’m waiting.”

The hell, “For what?”

“An explanation.”

John’s mind is elsewhere entirely, what could possibly need—“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘ _oh_.’”

John’s hand moves again, stretching to trace long Sherlock’s spine. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Sherlock doesn’t look satisfied with the response, but he settles in a comfortable position anyway, nudging one arm in John’s side until John lifts to allow it around his lower back. He shuffles his body forward and takes John’s hand in his free one, kissing the tips of fingers and taking two of them in his mouth. His tongue is warm, strong as it works over John’s knuckles and back until the tips are just hooked on Sherlock’s teeth. Sherlock shuts his eyes and repeats the process, trailing his hand over John’s thigh, down to cup his sack and back up to tease his shaft.

It’s the first touch from a hand _other_ than his own in weeks and John is immeasurably satisfied with even the slightest attention.

His fingers are sucked free of any excess saliva. Sherlock fists John's length and gently pulls until the head of his cock is fully accessible to him. He wastes no time in coating it with several slow drags of his tongue before taking it in his mouth. John’s legs stiffen and he grips the sheets as a muffled string of curses and encouragement entice Sherlock to take him a bit deeper.

John’s finally able to relax when Sherlock establishes a rhythm, taking in as much length as is manageable in his position. Every now and then he’ll hollow his cheeks and come off with a _pop_ to mouth long the length of it, from the base to the head and back. Sherlock’s attention to detail and habit of recommitting the important things to memory result in some of the best blowjobs John’s ever had. Sherlock has ruined him for anyone else.

Watching those red lips kiss and stretch to accommodate him is something else. John’s not sure what it is that makes this particular instance so interesting. It doesn’t feel any different; Sherlock’s doing what John likes best.  The subtle line of black does wonders for his eyes, gives them a fuller shape. His lashes are already long, darker than usual now that John has the time to look. Sherlock pulls off of John and gives him a slow lick up his entire length, turning to look up at him through his lashes. John’s hand finds its place in Sherlock’s hair while the other digs nails into Sherlock’s lower back.

He can’t quite reach where he needs. John runs his hands down through hair and over the prominent jaw, tapping lightly twice to get Sherlock to sit up for a second. The lube in their side table has been switched out, he discovers. It’s covered in hearts and has information printed in French. John can’t read it, but he recognizes the picture of a raspberry beneath what must say ‘flavoured.’ The bottle’s small, probably good for a couple weekends. The seal’s already broken.

“Taste test,” Sherlock fills him in, head on John’s thigh while the hand he has around John’s back skims over John’s side. “Not nearly as off-putting as it looks.” John was just thinking it looks better than anything else he would’ve considered.

“So it’s a _little_ off-putting, then?”

“I never cared for it, but I assumed you’d like to experiment.”

John has ideas.

“If you would, though,” Sherlock turns his hand palm up and nods at the bottle. John flips the top up and squeezes until Sherlock tells him enough.

“Real quick, just let me—” Sherlock leans away while John shifts against their pillows. He finds the crop lodged between them and tosses it to the foot of the bed. In the adjusted position he tilts his hips toward Sherlock.  He’s settled, Sherlock’s comfortable and he reaches to run his hand beneath the silk and over one cheek, then part of the other. Perfect. “You good?”

Sherlock answers by taking John in his mouth again and humming approval. It takes everything John has not to buck up into his mouth. He coats his index and middle fingers with lube and clicks the top closed, setting it just within reach by Sherlock’s other side, and uses his free ones to lift the lace and silk. Sherlock’s hips raise and he moves his hips from side to side. John grabs black curls and tugs warning. Sherlock’s hips still.

He slips one coated finger down the cleft of his arse and follows it with the other, dipping to tease just inside. Sherlock’s reaction is immediate, a little overeager to take most of John in his mouth. He pulls off and turns away to clear his throat. John holds still. “You ok?” he asks after a moment. Sherlock nods and tries to mutter an apology. He’s nothing to be sorry for, so John probes deeper with his middle finger and Sherlock rocks forward.

Now John is sure Sherlock has abstained from any sort of release for the better part of the last two months.

“You’re tight, love.” Sherlock squeezes around his finger and John pushes into the resistance until he’s gone as far as he can reach. It’s just shy of his target. He looks over to where his fingers shift beneath the silk, now stained a trail of darker red from some of the lube. He pulls back out to watch the material move with his fingers and Sherlock tries to follow him, keep him inside by rocking back.  John laughs, Sherlock actually whimpers. “How long’s it been?”

The answer is immediate, “Fifty-four days.” John can feel his lips brush his leg. Christ, has it really been that long?

“Come now,” John teases. He hooks his finger back in and gently pulls to stretch him. Sherlock’s grip on his side tightens and he feels the other hand pulse around him, trying to keep from too much additional pressure. “I know you’ve got it down to the minute. Let’s hear it, then.”

“Fifty-four days,” he repeats, shifting his hips minutely for more sensation. John gives him a crook of his finger a couple of times. “thirteen hours, and twenty-three minutes, give or take—oh _god_ , John, five or so _._ ”

John refrains from praise but rewards him with a second finger, easing it in when he knows Sherlock can handle it. “Is that since you’ve been properly _fucked_?” He trusts his fingers hard once and Sherlock gasps. “Or when I had you pinned to the kitchen table with your cock down my throat and plug in your arse as you wrapped your legs around my shoulders and begged me to let you come?” John’s been using that day for wank material for weeks, and since then there have been times where Sherlock’s taken breaks to talk him through it. He never touches John, says he doesn’t want to get too involved and distract himself from his work.

“Sherlock,” John slips his hand beneath Sherlock’s jaw and tilts it up until the detective’s looking as his erection. “It’s not gonna suck itself.”

Sherlock’s mouth is back on John with much more enthusiasm. They continue with their back and forth teasing. Sherlock pulls off when he thinks John’s too close and focuses on marking his thighs and stomach. John’s fingers slide with ease and when he’s ready for more he’ll pull on Sherlock’s hair. The prelude of the heat and slick that envelops him only makes him eager to sink into Sherlock. The thought alone is enough to get him off.

He pulls his fingers out and Sherlock nearly whines around his cock, coming up to look back at his hand and then up at John’s face. The red had faded, most of it is on John, and there’s a very faint smudge of black beneath the winged tip of his liner. Otherwise, his makeup’s perfectly intact. John has the distinct feeling this isn’t the first time Sherlock’s done this. “I need a break,” he explains, leaning forward so Sherlock can pull his arm out from under him. “Or else this’ll be over before it’s begun. Up for a sec.”

Sherlock sits against pillows while John moves to sit in the center of the bed, tossing rumpled sheets aside to retrieve the lube. “On your knees, right there,” he nods in front of him. Sherlock does as he’s told, the sound of leather against leather fills the room. It’s strangely sexy. “Face down, arse up.” Sherlock grabs one of the pillows to tuck under his upper body, wraps his arms around it and rests his head where he’s bunched the corner of it up in a hand.

John runs his hands over the leather and laces, from heel to the backs of Sherlock’s knees, up and around his thighs. When his hands meet skin, he squeezes and scratches up and over the silk. Sherlock spreads his legs to accommodate John and sighs into the pillow. The jumper’s fallen to bunch up by Sherlock’s chest. John leans over to bite his lower back as he hooks the thin band of panties and pulls them down, his mouth chasing it over soft cheeks. When he has it pulled just enough to expose Sherlock, he grips his arse and massages, pulling cheeks away to lick at the lube around his hole.

It tastes fine, not great but it’s better than the alternative. Sherlock shudders beneath him and John hears the hush of pillow against sheets as Sherlock tightens his hold.   He laps up the rest of it, pointing his tongue and applying the faintest pressure against the tight ring of muscle. Sherlock tries to push back against him, but John moves away, watches as Sherlock sways his hips and groans.

“All you have to do is ask.”

“Mmnobgn,” is the muffled reply he gets in return.

“Speak up, Sherlock, or we’ll sit here all night.”

Sherlock turns his head just enough, “I’m not begging.”

“Oh no, you’re going to ask nicely.”

“Please.” It sounds harsh. John smirks.

“Please what?”

“Please stick your tongue in my arse.”

“Mm, that doesn’t sound too sincere.” John sits back and rubs his thumbs on either side of his hole. Sherlock scoffs. A quick press of thumb just inside cuts the noise short. “You’ve been so good up to this point, let me hear that pretty voice ask for once, hm?”

Sherlock’s not exceptionally vocal during sex, which is amazing considering he doesn’t usually shut up otherwise. He’s explained to John before that it takes a great amount of effort to shut the rest of his mind out long enough to enjoy intimacy, he’s afraid if he starts talking it’ll derail. John tried convincing him that engaging more might make it easier, but that’s one thing Sherlock doesn’t want to mess up ‘in case it doesn’t work’ and he ‘ruins the mood.’ As much as he enjoys experimenting, he’s stubborn about this in particular.

He’s silent, still. John gives him a chance before he reaches for the lube to proceed anyway, but Sherlock speaks up. “Please,” he’s quiet, probably considering what to say. “I’ve made you wait much longer than you ought to’ve.” He lifts up on an elbow and turns to look back at John over his shoulder, face flushed and pupils blown. He’s still in his right headspace.  “But I’ve gone without, too. Please don’t make me wait any longer. Give me something, _anything_ , John, I—”

John doesn’t give him the chance to finish and leans forward to press into him. He tastes more raspberry and what’s uniquely Sherlock, and the detective turns to moan into the pillow. It catches in his throat and he holds his breath, pushing back for more. John pulls back to replace his tongue with a finger, stretching and licking around it before pushing in again. John’s name is muffled in the pillow, with a couple of pleases and oh gods. Sherlock’s back bows further, the boots stretch and make more noise.

He’s about to reach for the lube when Sherlock insists he won’t last much longer. John won’t either. He pulls out and sits back, pulling at the panties again. With some careful maneuvering they get one of his legs free of them and they catch and hang at the top of his boots on the other.

Sherlock has a cock ring on. It’s bright red. John has a feeling it’s oddly heart shaped when it’s not stretched.

“Incredible.”

“You should see the front.” Sherlock’s short of breath. John leans to the side and Sherlock tilts enough to give him a view. The top is heart shaped with a vibrating bullet through the center of it. It’s not on.

“Exactly how long have you been planning today?”

“Weeks.”

John wonders how he missed this earlier. “Think you can handle it turned on?”

“Dunno, not concerned with it now.”

The ‘ _obviously_ ’ goes unsaid. “You comfortable like this?” he asks as he sits back up, lube in hand. He flips the cap open and covers himself with a few strokes. Sherlock nods and John settles between his legs, nudging Sherlock’s open further. He puts more on his fingers to spread on and in Sherlock one last time before closing and setting the bottle aside, wiping his hands on the sheets (always forgets to ready a towel). John holds himself and lines up, his other hand smoothing over Sherlock’s back. “Ready?”

“John Hamish Watson, for god’s sake, get insi—” Sherlock’s cut off with a moan when John pushes in. It’s just his head, but John’s dangerously close already. Sherlock is unbelievably tight, writhing beneath him and trying desperately to push back for more.

“Oh _god_ , John, give it to me, I can take it.” His voice shakes and he’s panting, clawing at the pillow he holds and the sheets beneath him as he continues. It’s a string of pleas and encouragements that trails off with nonsense words and John feels the heat pull him in. He doesn’t try to stop him, and when Sherlock’s pressed far enough he slides his hand to Sherlock’s hip. John looks down to watch the last couple of inches disappear.

God _damn_ , they’re never going fifty-four days without this again.

John leans forward, rolling his hips to press his weight against him, and runs his hands up Sherlock’s spine, under the jumper and back down his sides. “Look at _you_.” Sherlock shivers and John pulls back for a shallow thrust. Sherlock meets it with more force than John anticipated. “Close already?”

“For the past ten minutes,” Sherlock pulls forward and comes back, John rocks with him, “I’ve been _close_.”

Sherlock needs it, they both need it. Fuck it, John keeps one hand tight on Sherlock’s hip and the other pulls at Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock  picks himself up and John wraps his arm around him, under the jumper and pulls him to sit up in his lap. Sherlock’s boots squelch and stretch and he’s leaning back against John, who’s too damn old to put his knees through this sort of strain but sod it, he needs to press himself against Sherlock and feel the entirety of him when they finish. Sherlock reaches back to clutch at John’s hip, his other arm reaches back over his shoulder to grab at John’s hair while John grunts into and bites Sherlock’s shoulder, thrusting up into him.

The contrast of cold boots and hot skin press into John’s legs and his jumper rubs against his bare chest. He’s not close enough to Sherlock, not like they need, and he lifts the jumper up. Sherlock lets go just long enough to pull it over his head and throw it to the head of the bed, then he’s back at John’s hair and waist, head tilted back and John has an excellent view of the defined jaw and faded red lips. Sherlock’s eyes water, John figures from an overwhelming feeling after so long without. He murmurs praise on Sherlock’s skin, just beneath his ear and in his hair, tells him he’s “good, so good” between his shoulder blades, squeezes him tight to his chest when he lets his ego get the best of him and starts talking about how perfect his cock must feel inside him.

“Turn it on,” Sherlock begs, keening when John drags against his prostate. John’s quick with the lube, gets just enough on his palm to wrap around Sherlock. He clicks the bullet on with his other hand. Sherlock’s immediately responsive.

John’s completely out of tune with the rest of the world. Their space isn’t decorated and he no longer smells the lavender. He tastes the sheen of sweet on Sherlock’s shoulders, smells his musk, feels the rumpled sheets under his knees and the electricity between the two of them, their bodies moving in sync with each other. The springs in the mattress and the slap of skin are background noise to Sherlock’s breaths and John’s name, over and over. John is right there, just a push away from finishing when Sherlock’s body shudders, tenses, and his back bows, his hands tighten on John and John’s never heard Sherlock cry out so loud.

He’s coming with his name in his ear and a tight body still rocking with aftershocks. John’s hand stills on Sherlock, his hold around his chest tightens, and he grits his teeth through the first wave of pleasure, gasping when the shock ebbs into a gradual high.

The hum of the cock ring has stopped by the time John’s aware of himself again. Sherlock’s leaning back against his good shoulder. It’s almost dead weight, but after a moment to collect themselves Sherlock tells him to stay still and slowly pulls off of him. A thin line of John’s sperm starts to trail down. John’s oddly proud of it. Sherlock halfheartedly shoves sheets to the side, covering up the spot he soiled, and stretches out to the head of the bed to curl around the pillow he’d been holding onto earlier. John wipes his hands on  the sheets again and follows him up to lay behind him, his joints protesting the whole time. They’ll scream regret but John will be singing a completely different tune come the next round.

After some time, Sherlock’s finally able to comfortably slip the cock ring off. They lay with legs tangled together (strange feeling with the leather), Sherlock content with his pillow and John spooning against his back. He runs a hand over Sherlock’s skin, never can get enough of him, can’t stop touching and doesn’t want to go without the warmth. Sherlock will want a shower as soon as possible, John wants to share it with him. He breaks the silence first. “I think this is one of the best Valentines I’ve ever had.”

“I _know_ it’s the best.” Cocky as always.

“Shut up,” John teases. He studies fresh bruises on Sherlock’s shoulders, pleased with the outcome. “Seriously, this isn’t anything like I expected. I thought you hated this holiday.”

“I don’t hate it, John. I’ve never had a reason to celebrate, _really_ celebrate, until now.”

John is touched, really. After all the trouble Sherlock went through to make it meaningful, he couldn’t be any more grateful. Even with all the frills. John can’t help but laugh.

“What?”

“It’s just—rose petal trail and incense, heart shaped cock ring. _Thigh high boots_.”

“I did consider classical music to have playing from my laptop.”

John laughs harder, Sherlock joins in. It’s not something John hears very often, so he relishes in it while he can.

“This is a bit much. _Frills_.”

“Bit, yeah. But thank you.” John gently squeezed Sherlock’s thigh and peppered his neck with kisses. “I know you’ve been working hard the last few weeks; I never would’ve guessed you’d pay this any mind.”

“That was the idea. You’re difficult to surprise.”

“Living with you for three years, I thought I’d seen it all. You’ve stories to tell, by the way.”

“Later.”

“In the shower?”

Sherlock detangles himself and turns to John. The liner has smudged some, lips almost back to their normal colour. John tries committing it to memory while he can. “If you’d like,” Sherlock replies.

John smiles and lets the silence settle. When Sherlock looks like he’s ready to clean up, John stops him for a slow, lazy kiss, his favourite kind. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Sherlock.”

“You too, John.”


End file.
